Page 77 of Long Shot

“You know that’s wrong, right?”

I’m silent. “I know. But it’s how I feel. Why should I be allowed to have fun, when two people died? Their families aren’t having fun.”

“Ah.” Now he does what I wanted all along—pulls me onto his lap and wraps his arms around me. “Of course they’re grieving. But life isn’t over for them. And it shouldn’t be over for you.”

“I know.” I press my nose to his neck and breathe in his scent. “I just think I should suffer for a while.”

“I told you about my buddy dying in Yemen.”

I nod and finger the placket of his shirt.

“I felt guilty about that. But that was nothing compared to how I felt after my brother died.”

I lift my head. “Your brother died?”

“He took his own life.”

“Oh, my God.” I stare at him openmouthed.

“My dad was drunk—as usual—and was on a tear because my brother needed a few dollars to pay for a field trip at school. He was fourteen. My old man got pissed off every time money came up. We never had enough. He couldn’t hold down a job. He got a disability pension, but it didn’t go far. Dallas and I both had jobs but we used our money to pay for groceries. Dallas had some money hidden in his room and it was gone. We knew Dad took it to buy booze.”

Pain blooms behind my breastbone and I make a soft noise.

“Anyway, Dad was yelling and told us we were good for nothing but sucking money out of him and he’d be better off if we’d never been born.”

I press my fingers to my mouth.

“And Dallas took him seriously. He hung himself in the bathroom.”

“Oh, dear Lord.” My stomach tightens and my chest aches.

“Yeah.” He strokes a hand over my back, as if I’m the one who needs comforting. “It was bad.” His voice has gone deep and low with remembered pain. “After that, I didn’t give a shit about my old man anymore. I’d tried and tried to get him help, to get him to stop drinking, thinking maybe we could have a sort of normal life. Somehow. And then maybe Mom would come home. But after that . . . I stopped trying to help him. I just let him drink himself to death. But I felt guilty.”

“Oh, Cade.”

“I should have saved my brother. Somehow. I should have tried harder to get Dad to stop drinking. I should have stopped him from taking Dallas’s money. There were so many things I blamed myself for.”

“And none of that was your fault.”

“Right.” He meets my eyes with a faint, wry smile. “I get why you feel guilty, Reese. And I know even when you believe those things aren’t your fault, it still hurts. But don’t let it stop you from living your life.”

“Right. You’re right.” I tip my head. “You’ve made a good life.”

“I have. I was seventeen when Dallas died. I didn’t know what I was going to do with my life, because all I could see ahead of me was living there with Dad, finding some crap job to support us and making sure Dallas was okay until he graduated and we could both get out. But when he was gone, there was no reason to stay, so as soon as I finished high school, I left to join the Navy. But I still felt guilty leaving Dad on his own.” Cade shakes his head. “Even though I told myself I’d given up on him.”

“You couldn’t save him. You know that.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Oh, Cade. That’s so awful.” I ache for him, for the teenager he’d been, going through such terrible things, but I admire him for the man he’s become despite those things. Or maybe because of those things . . . because things like that could break you, or they could make you stronger. And Cade is a strong man.

I touch his face, wishing I had the words to tell him the admiration and . . . and . . . oh, man. I care about him. I wouldn’t have this swelling emotion in my chest if I didn’t care.

I admired him from the moment I met him in that job interview months ago. His need for control annoyed me, but he impressed me with his work ethic and the responsibility he feels for everyone around him. His intelligence, his confidence, his decisiveness . . . all traits I admire, because I’m like that, too, wanting to take charge, make things happen, accomplish things. I understand all that.

Knowing these things about him now, though, makes that admiration feel like . . . more.

I lean in and kiss him, like I wanted to, my hand on his face. He kisses me back, quickly taking control—of course—his big hands pulling me closer, sliding up into my hair to cup the back of my head, tilting it for a better angle, a deeper kiss. He licks into my mouth and I let him, our tongues sliding together, liquid heat drizzling down through my body right to my core.

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